


Hall of Shame

by zathara001



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Arrow (TV 2012), Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Justified, Leverage, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Supernatural, The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2018-11-10 01:18:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11116860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zathara001/pseuds/zathara001
Summary: What it says on the tin... a collection of unfinished fics.





	1. Index

This morning, I pulled out all of the fic starts that I have - the ones that are more than just notes or seeds of ideas (i.e., Dean Winchester wakes up after getting his arse handed to him by some supernatural menace to see a familiar trenchcoat. "Cas? What're you doing here?" Only to be answered by John Constantine: "Saving your sorry ass, mate.") - and re-read them. All *mumbly mumble* of them.

 

And then realized that the odds are vanishingly small that I will ever finish a number of them.

 

So, here's my hall of shame, as it were - a bunch of story starts that I'm not sure will ever be finished, presented here for your amusement, enjoyment, and, possibly, mockery. (GRIN)

 

This chapter is an index for quick reference, and each chapter will note the fandom(s) in the title.

 

1\. Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D./Supernatural crossover - Lola gets possessed by a similar spirit as possessed the truck in Supernatural 1x13, "Route 666."

 

2\. Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D./Captain America crossover - a sequel to "Favor for a Friend."

 

3\. Arrow/Daredevil crossover - Daredevil seeks out the Arrow for training in being a vigilante.

 

4\. Justified - I was going to make this into an OT3 fic (Raylan, Rachel, and Tim), but lost interest somewhere along the way.

 

5\. Librarians - a Jacob/Eve fic that I started but lost the thread of along the way.

 

6\. Star Trek Alternate Original Series (2009 movie and following) - a companion piece to "Unexpected Times," which would've followed Jim on the milk run/training cruise he took in the middle of that story.

 

7\. Leverage/Librarians crossover - a part of my "Brothers" crossover universe that never quite gelled.

As always, all rights in these characters and stories belong to the appropriate copyright owners.

 


	2. Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D./Supernatural

Continuity Note: takes place after Supernatural 6x14 but before 8x23 (don’t want to deal with all the fallout from the fall of the angels). Takes place after Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. 1x5 but before 1x15 (don’t want to deal with the post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier events).

This story was partly inspired by evenmoor's story "Don't Touch Lola," which can be found at <https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9289842/1/Don-t-Touch-Lola>; in fact, this story can be read as a sequel, of sorts, to evenmoor's story, though you don't have to read that one to understand this one. (You should read it, though. It's fun.)

 

# * # * #

 

"That’s the biggest cat carrier I’ve ever seen," Skye observed as she joined the rest of the team to watch a construction crane hoist a six-by-six-by-eight-foot crate onto a flatbed truck for transport.

 

The crate contained an alien creature that had gotten stuck on Earth after the Battle of London. How it had managed to get to rural Georgia was still a mystery, but at least the team had contained it before it did too much damage, though it had taken the team’s entire combined efforts and the use of Coulson’s beloved 1961 Corvette as a distraction. ("Lola is not a cat toy!" "That’s not a cat, so it works out.")

 

Now, a S.H.I.E.L.D. cleanup crew was relocating the creature to a secure containment facility.

 

Beside Skye, Grant Ward removed an ice pack from the side of his face and tested his jaw before answering, "You should see its litter box."

 

"Too bad he used you for a scratching post," Leo Fitz observed.

 

"He was just playing," Jemma Simmons said. "He didn’t mean to hurt Agent Ward."

 

"Hate to think what it could’ve done if it’d meant to," Ward muttered, and Skye laughed.

 

"Well, hopefully we’ll have a break before the next national disaster, or 0-8-4, so you can rest a bit," Simmons said. "You should go through full decontamination procedures, though, just in case. Never know what nasty extraterrestrial bugs it might’ve brought with it. Inadvertently, of course."

 

"Of course," Ward agreed dryly, before returning the ice pack to his jaw.

 

Skye glanced around at her team. Fitz, Simmons, Ward, and she were watching the proceedings with the crane and the flatbed truck. Melinda May would already be aboard the Bus, readying it for takeoff to their next mission, whatever that might be. And, standing a little apart from the rest of the team, Phil Coulson spoke into his cell phone. Skye found herself inching closer to him. She might’ve given up her work with the Rising Tide to work with S.H.I.E.L.D., but she was still naturally averse to secrets. Listening in when she probably shouldn’t was one way of finding those secrets.

 

"Doctor Randolph, this is Phil Coulson. We met during the incident with the berserker staff. … I’m calling to ask your advice on something. Have you seen the footage of the recent events in London? … A four-legged almost cat-like creature was behind it. No, that’s not necessary, we’ve contained it. We were just wondering what it eats."

 

Skye had to bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud. Trust Coulson to be detail-oriented even in a matter like this.

 

"Besides people," Coulson said, and those two words cut through her humor. It was easy to laugh now, but the creature could have caused major damage, even, yes, killed a lot of people, if they hadn’t used Lola to lure it into the crate.

 

"Thank you, Doctor Randolph." Coulson ended his call and turned, frowning when he saw Skye standing there.

 

"So," she said brightly, hoping to stave off a lecture which would be worse than having to go one on one with Natasha Romanoff, "what does it eat?"

 

"Pretty much anything it can kill," Coulson responded. Across the street, the crew was securing the crate to the flatbed. The crane had already detached and would be on its way back to the rental company.

 

"I kind of hate to see it put in a zoo," Skye said as she and Coulson rejoined the rest of the team.

 

"If we had a reliable method of contacting Thor, I’d ask him to see it safely home," Coulson said.

 

"Are you sure we can’t keep it?" Jemma asked as the flatbed’s engine rumbled to life. Or maybe that was just the cat-creature growling. "It’s obviously got a rudimentary intelligence. We could train it."

 

"Our very own attack-cat!" Fitz chimed in. "Having that on our side would even up a lot of fights."

 

"We could wall off one of the labs for it," Jemma continued. "It wouldn’t be any trouble."

 

"Remember what I said about litter boxes?" Ward asked. "I’m not cleaning it."

 

"Besides," the voice of Melinda May cut in, and Skye jumped. She’d never get used to how silently the other woman could move. "Having something that big on board would adversely affect the Bus’s aerodynamics. I’m not sure we’d even be able to get off the ground."

 

"But –"

 

"No." Coulson’s simple declaration cut off Jemma’s protest. "Having that aboard the Bus is only somewhat less risky than having Banner aboard." He waved at the flatbed as it pulled away.

 

"Cheer up, Simmons," Fitz said. "We can get a real cat. They’re not big enough to affect the Bus’s aerodynamics."

 

"Still not cleaning the litter box," Ward said. Then he looked at Coulson. "We done here?"

 

"Let’s go." Coulson turned back toward Lola, and May led the way toward the SUV parked beside her.

 

Just as Coulson reached for the door handle, Lola’s engine roared to life.

 

"I didn’t think it had a remote," Skye said.

 

"She doesn’t," Coulson answered. He reached for the handle again, and Lola roared down the street, leaving twin rubber tracks behind.

 

May turned to Coulson. "Looks like our next job is close to home."

 

#

 

"Are you ready?" Dean Winchester asked his brother. The two of them stood at the head of the stairs to the second-floor mezzanine of the Plains Hotel in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Overhead, a stained glass skylight patterned in red and blue medallions gleamed in the lamplight. In the daytime, the skylight threw colored patterns across the tiled floor downstairs. Now, at nearly midnight, he could barely make out the red and blue insets.

 

Beside him, Sam hefted an iron crowbar in his right hand. The weapon wouldn't kill the ghost that resided here, but it could buy time for Dean to accomplish his objective. "Ready when you are."

 

"Let's go."

 

Quickly, quietly, Dean crossed the mezzanine to the glass-fronted display cabinet holding memorabilia from the hotel's century-long history. Trusting Sam to keep watch for human as well as supernatural intruders, Dean reached out for the padlock securing the cabinet doors. He'd chatted up the convention manager earlier and learned that he wouldn't face any other security measures once the padlock was open.

 

Not for the first time, Dean gave thanks to his father's spirit for teaching him, among other useful skills, how to pick a lock. After a moment, he eased the door open.

 

A breath of cool air across the back of his neck was his only warning. He dove to one side, away from the ghost reaching for him. He had a glimpse of a woman in a long blue gown reaching for him.

 

Then Sam was swinging, the crowbar passing through the woman's stomach, and the image dissipated.

 

"Hurry," Sam urged. "She won't be vapor long."

 

Dean scrambled to his feet, reaching into the cabinet for the blue gown hung at its back. Yanking it from its hanger, he spared a moment to close and lock the cabinet, despite Sam's quiet curse as he dissipated the ghost once again - the ghost who wore a gown remarkably like the one in his hand.

 

"Dean!" Sam's whisper was strident. "She's re-forming already."

 

Dean dashed toward the room he and Sam had rented, shoved it open. Sam's footsteps hurried behind him.

 

A moment later, and the gown lay crumpled in the bathtub. Dean grabbed a carton of salt from where he'd placed it on the counter hours before, dumped a generous amount onto the antique fabric.

 

Then ghostly hands gripped his throat, and he struggled with the ghost of a woman who'd died more than a hundred years before. With ghostly strength, she shoved him backward, and he stumbled against the sink, landing hard on the toilet. His vision went blurry, and his lungs burned with the need for oxygen.

 

Just as he thought he was going to pass out, the ghost threw back its head and screamed. She whirled away from him, toward Sam. She reached for Sam, but vanished before she could complete the movement.

 

In the tub, her dress burned.

 

"You okay?" Sam asked.

 

"Yeah," Dean wheezed out around gasps for breath. "Let's get out of here."

 

#

 

Morning found them at a diner outside Lincoln, Nebraska. Dean finished the last of his scrambled eggs and sat back in the booth. Across from him, Sam used a piece of toast to soak up the last of his over-easy eggs.

 

"We should be back at Bobby's in time for lunch," Dean said.

 

"Because driving is so strenuous you'll be hungry again when we get there."

 

Dean scowled at his brother, resisted the urge to throw a packet of sugar at him. "Food's one of life's great pleasures, Sammy. Don't knock it."

 

"Too much of a good thing is a bad thing." Now Sam sat back, reaching for his coffee. "We could stop and get something to throw on the grill before we get there."

 

"Yeah, okay," Dean agreed. It was easier than arguing. This time. "But you're not touching the grill."

 

"Just because the patio roof caught fire one time -"

 

"That's one more than me and Bobby combined."

 

The ring of Dean's cell phone cut off whatever Sam would've said in reply. Dean pulled the phone from his pocket, checked the display. It read, UNKNOWN CALLER.

 

With a frown, Dean answered anyway. "Dean Winchester."

 

A bland male voice answered him. "I'm sure you don't remember me, Mr. Winchester."

 

That was the oddest opening to a conversation he'd ever had, Dean thought, and in his line of work, he'd had some strange conversations. "Yeah?"

 

"I'm just as certain you do remember my car."

 

Okay, this was veering from strange into downright freaky. "Why's that?"

 

"Lola."

 

Dean's memory flashed back to an encounter he'd had outside a diner in … New Mexico? Yeah, New Mexico … several months back. "The red '61 Vette, I remember. Never did figure out how you knew my name."

 

"I know a lot of things. Some of them I'm even supposed to know."

 

Supposed to? Dean frowned at the man's response. Across from him, Sam had raised his eyebrows in a "What's going on?" expression. Dean countered with a slight shake of his head, meaning, "Tell you later."

 

"So why're you calling me now?"

 

"I have a problem, Mr. Winchester. One I think you and your brother are uniquely qualified to help with."

 

"What's the nature of this problem?"

 

"Lola's been possessed."

 


	3. Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D./Captain America

It had taken an argument with both Phil Coulson and Melinda May for Skye to have a night to herself, an argument she'd almost lost, but the final victory was worth it. More than anything else right now, in the aftermath of the fight with John Garrett and former agent Grant Ward, Skye needed a night alone.

 

She'd been on her own long enough that she preferred solitude for dealing with big life events, as one of the therapists from Family Services had called them. _Life events don't get much bigger than going from working for the world's pre-eminent intelligence agency to being not quite a fugitive on the run_ , Skye thought. _Not to mention finding out one of your best friends is barely alive and that the man you thought you could fall in love with was actually working for the enemy._

 

It was, she reflected, a lot to process. Still, she hadn't asked for much -- just a night in a motel by herself while May and Coulson went over the Bus to see what was salvageable. Simmons would be going over her lab, and Triplett would be, if nothing else, doing the heavy lifting. Skye supposed she could help with that last part, but, as she'd said in her concluding argument, she'd only been an agent for a month, if that, and she wasn't used to this life yet.

 

"You'd better get used to it, fast," May had said. "We've got a lot of work ahead of us."

 

"We can give you a night," Coulson said. "Tomorrow we'll have a status update and we'll decide what we're doing next."

 

He'd used the plural, but Skye knew Coulson meant he'd decided what they were going to do next and, more significantly, she knew she'd follow him. She'd made that decision when SHIELD fell apart underneath them, and she wasn't going to change that decision anytime soon. Still, a night to adjust was a gift she wasn't going to waste.

 

Skye's fingers tightened on the bag she held. It contained everything she needed for a quiet night by herself -- her favorite sushi, a pack of bubble bath, a bar of good dark chocolate, and a single-serve bottle of wine. With her free hand Skye slid her key into the door of the motel room and stepped inside.

 

The door closed behind her, and she clicked the lock into place. Skye reached to turn on the light, then froze. The room was dark, part of it hidden by the bathroom built into the room, but she sensed another presence in the room nevertheless.

 

Instinct made her turn the handle, to get out, to get someplace public. Being in public wouldn't stop a professional, but maybe she could buy herself some time, or get lost in whatever crowds remained at eight o'clock at night.

 

Before she could get the door open, a hand slammed around her mouth, and she was yanked back. Skye let the bag fall, hoped irrationally that the bottle of wine hadn't broken, and slammed her elbow back into her attacker's stomach, only to encounter body armor, not flesh.

 

Ward's training kicked in, and she slid her feet wider to lower her center of gravity, pulled the man's other hand closer, deeper into her stomach, but the man countered each move she made. A low chuckle sounded near her ear. "Nice try. Would've worked against some schmuck on the street, but not me."

 

Skye screamed, then, though the sound was muffled thanks to the hand over her mouth, and she felt herself being dragged deeper into the room.

 

The door slammed open, revealing another man in body armor. Skye hadn't seen the first man's face, but she'd remember this man's -- intense blue eyes, expressionless mouth, both framed by longish unkempt dark hair.

 

"Who the hell're you?" the man holding Skye demanded.

 

The other man held up his left hand, and Skye felt her eyes widen when she saw it. Not because it was holding a knife, but because it was metal.

 

"Been looking for you," the man holding Skye said.

 

"Who has been?" the other man -- the Winter Soldier -- asked. His voice was a pleasant enough baritone, or would have been, if not for the menace it held.

 

"All of Hydra. You disappeared after DC, and most of us thought you were dead. Then we heard Rogers survived, and if he did, then you did."

 

"Who else?"

 

"What do you mean, who else?"

 

Skye struggled against her attacker again, though even if she got away from him, the Winter Soldier still blocked her escape. But Ward's training came back to her. _Never give up. If you give up, you've lost._

 

"Who else is looking for me?"

 

"Everyone. The feds. The military. Whatever's left of SHIELD. Hell, probably even the Boy Scouts. You know that, so why're you asking?"

 

The Winter Soldier smiled. "I'm waiting. To see how long it takes you to realize your team's not coming."

 

Skye felt the tremor in the hand over her mouth, but her attacker's voice was still strong when he said, "Team or no team, I'm taking the girl, and you can't stop me."

 

"Can't I?" The Winter Soldier hadn't moved, hadn't even changed expression, but the tone of the question implied Skye's attacker was an idiot for voicing the thought. "I've already planned fourteen different ways to stop you, without collateral damage."

 

Hopefully she was included in collateral damage, Skye thought.

 

"Like hell you have," her attacker declared. "Here's how it's gonna be. I'm gonna go out through the sliding door, and I'm taking --"

 

In a blur of movement Skye barely registered, the Winter Soldier threw the knife he'd been holding. It flew through the air, hilt first. Skye tried to follow its path, but it flew past her head, out of her line of vision. She heard a thud and a crackle of electricity, and then her attacker's muscles convulsed, and she yanked herself free of his grip.

 

By the time she turned, the man was on the floor.

 

"Is he dead?" And just how did her voice stay so steady?

 

"Do you want him to be?" From this man, it was just a question, somewhat along the lines of, "Do you want cream with your coffee?"

 

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean --" Skye took a breath. "If he was going to kill me, then it's better he's dead than I am, selfish as that sounds. But I don't want to pull the trigger myself. I guess that makes me a hypocrite."

 

"Makes you human," the Winter Soldier responded. "It's not a bad thing."

 

"Who is he?" Skye asked.

 

"Hydra."

 

"I got that. I mean, who is he within Hydra?"

 

"A man that wanted you dead. Or worse."

 

"What's worse than dead?"

 

"Alive for experimentation."

 

That, Skye thought, was nothing less than gospel truth, spoken by one who would know. "He found you, then?"

 

"Who found me?" The Winter Soldier -- no, Skye corrected herself, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes -- moved past her to check her attacker's vital signs.

 

"Captain Rogers. I mean, Captain America, or Steve Rogers."

 

The Winter Soldier -- no, Barnes -- chuckled. "It's been challenging, staying a step ahead of him since you wrote that program for him."

 

A step -- ahead? "So -- you haven't seen him?"

 

"No," Barnes said. "I haven't seen him yet."

 

Skye's brows slammed together. "Then why are you here?"

 

"Because Hydra wants you." He looked up at her. "I just haven't figured out whether they want you dead or alive."

 

"Dead, probably," Skye said, "because that's how I want them."

 

"Really?"

 

"I don't know." Skye hated the plaintive tone in her voice. "It's more accurate to say that I want them not to be a threat, more than I want them dead. I just don't know how to make that happen."

 

"Don't you?"

 

"You know the saying as well as I do. Cut off one head, two more will take its place."

 

"So don't go for the head," Barnes suggested. "Go for the heart."

 

"Hydra has no heart."

 

"That," Barnes held out a flash drive to her, "is what they want you to believe."

 

#

 

 _It's way too early to be awake, much less paying a cabbie for the ride to the airport._ Still, that's exactly what Skye did, slipping him a fifty and telling him to keep the change.

 

That might not have been the smartest decision, she thought as she scrambled out of the cab, given that their operating budget had been slashed to near-zero after SHIELD's outing, but she was in a hurry to get back to her cabin on the Bus and open up her laptop.

 

She'd started to read the flash drive the Winter Soldier - Sergeant Barnes, she corrected herself - had given her the night before, but her laptop's battery had crashed before it finished loading the drive's contents.

 

"You're back early." The bland voice made her stop short.

 

Skye hoped she didn't look too guilty when she met Phil Coulson's eyes. "You said we'd have a status update this morning."

 

"At ten," Coulson clarified. "If it's seven now, I'd be surprised."

 

Coulson studied her as she approached where he stood on the ramp leading inside the Bus. "Night off didn't go like you planned?"

 

"More than I'd planned, actually. But I'm good." Skye hurried forward. Maybe she could slip past him --

 

With one sideways step, Coulson blocked her approach. "The last time you hid something from me, I put a scrambler bracelet on you."

 

"To protect SHIELD," Skye countered. "Which technically doesn't exist anymore."

 

"That doesn't mean I don't have another scrambler handy."


	4. Arrow/Daredevil

Every city has its own unique character, from the sounds of its emergency sirens, to the smells of its shops and industries, to the pace its people walked the streets, to the number of cars stuck at any given traffic light.

 

Matt Murdock started cataloging Starling City’s traits the moment he stepped into the terminal at Starling City Airport. Not as busy as La Guardia or JFK, but then few airports were. Not as many regional and international accents in the voices surrounding him, either – where New York was an international hodgepodge, Starling City seemed more monocultural, at least when it came to speech patterns.

 

People in Starling also seemed to be friendlier than those in New York. Matt was accustomed to people giving him and his cane a wide berth, but four people paused to ask if he needed assistance getting anywhere or finding anything. He accepted an airport employee’s offer to walk him to the taxi stand and hail a cab for him – something he wouldn’t have done in New York, but not accepting would have made him stand out more than he already did as a blind man, and he didn’t want that, even if he would only be in Starling a few days.

 

"The Starling Grand Hotel," he told the taxi driver and let himself relax, however fractionally, as the taxi pulled into traffic.

 

It would be a short trip, but if he were lucky, it would be an eventful one.

 

#

 

In the aftermath of Slade Wilson’s attack on Starling City, Laurel Lance wasn’t certain whether she should be glad she’d bullied the District Attorney into rehiring her or not. She was busier than she’d ever been, but the work wasn’t as fulfilling as the work she’d done with CNRI before the destruction of the Glades. Laurel was coming to realize there was a big difference between helping people who needed it and punishing people who hurt others. Both were necessary, even vital, parts of the legal system, but only one spoke to her soul.

 

Still, the volume of prosecutions after Wilson’s attack at least served to keep her mind off the grief of losing her sister a second time. At least this time she knew Sara was alive and as safe as anyone could be in the League of Assassins.

 

 _Stop thinking about Sara,_ Laurel told herself firmly. _You've got a dozen indictments to prepare. Focus on those._

 

Laurel shook her hair back out of her eyes and focused on her computer. Every one of Wilson’s mirakuru-enhanced soldier-minions was facing twenty to life, and it was her job, her sworn duty, to make sure each one was prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

 

She was just diving into the recitation of charges when her desk phone rang. A glance at the display told her it was the receptionist calling, and for a moment Laurel was tempted to ignore it. But habit won out, and she punched the speaker button.

 

"Yes, Caroline?"

 

"There’s a man here to see you, Ms. Lance, but I don’t see that he has an appointment."

 

"Does this man have a name?" Laurel asked.

 

"Matthew Murdock, of Nelson and Murdock in New York."

 

"I don’t know a –" Laurel began, then stopped as the name registered in her memory. "Is he blind, by any chance?"

 

"Yes, he is."

 

"I’ll be right there." She was on her feet almost before she disconnected the call.

 

She saw him as soon as she reached the lobby, tall and straight in a suit, his cane casually in one hand, and she couldn’t help smiling as she crossed to him. He wouldn’t – couldn’t – see the smile, of course, but he’d told her once he could hear it in her voice. She hoped that was still true.

 

"Matt."

 

He turned toward the sound of her voice, that smile that she remembered setting his face alight beneath the glasses he wore. "Laurel."

 

She took his outstretched hand, said, "You know I’m not settling for a handshake, right?"

 

Matt laughed and tugged her into a hug. "I’d say you look good, but …"

 

"I’d know it for the flattery it is," Laurel finished. "What brings you all the way to Starling?"

 

"CLE course. Sixteen hours out of the way in one long weekend."

 

"Long way to travel just for CLEs," Laurel teased. "I mean, Hawaii or Vegas, sure, but Starling?"

 

"Well, Hawaii and Vegas don’t have you."

 

Laurel laughed. "Still the same smooth-talking Matt. How about I buy you a late lunch, and you can tell me all about Nelson and Murdock’s greatest cases?"

 

"There haven’t been that many," Matt said, "but I’d love to have lunch with you."

 

#

 

Matt let Laurel guide him through the streets of Starling, her arm linked through his as if they were a couple out for a walk. It was a pleasant fantasy, and Matt allowed himself to indulge in it while she talked about the city’s reconstruction efforts.

 

"Starling’s had its fair share of disasters," was his comment when Laurel paused for breath, and to check traffic before they crossed a street.

 

"More than," Laurel agreed. "Curb. We’re almost there."

 

"To what fine dining establishment are you taking me?" Matt asked formally, though he kept his tone light.

 

"Big Belly Burger."

 

"I – don’t know what to say," Matt said. The Laurel he remembered had enjoyed sit-down restaurants far more than any fast food, had in fact actually _sniffed_ once when Foggy brought them the fastest of fast food burgers and fries in the middle of an all-night study session.

 

"It’s a regional chain," Laurel told him. "Curb up. It’s the thing I missed the most about going away for school. Door here."

 

A rush of aromas – onions, grease, beef, and so many more – assaulted his nose, and Matt focused past them as Laurel guided him to a seat.

 

"Trust me to order for you?" she asked.

 

"Whatever you’re having," Matt replied and heard the click of her heels against the linoleum floor as she moved away. He heard her order two of the Big Belly specials with chocolate milkshakes and smiled ruefully to himself, wondering how his armor would fit when he returned to Hell’s Kitchen.

 

"Here you go," Laurel said, followed by the soft _clunk_ of a glass being set in front of him. "One chocolate milkshake by your left hand, ten o'clock."

 

Matt stretched out his hand, encountered the frosty glass, traced the outline until he found the straw, and took a sip, managed not to grimace as the artificial chocolate flavor spread over his tongue.

 

"Wait ‘til you dip a French fry in it," Laurel told him. "That’s really good."

 

Matt tried not to shudder at the thought. "Sounds great. Congratulations, by the way – Ms. ADA."

 

Laurel laughed, but there was less humor in it than before. "Thanks, I guess. It’s not what I’d expected to do, but it has its challenges."

 

"No surprise, given all that Starling’s been through recently," Matt observed. "The Glades last year, the terrorist attack a few months ago, your vigilante."

 

That was interesting - her heart rate jumped when he mentioned the vigilante. Matt took another sip of the too-sweet milkshake and waited to hear what she'd say.

 

"Yes," Laurel said. "We’ve been through a lot. It would’ve been a lot worse if the Arrow hadn’t been here."

 

"You’re not prosecuting him, then?" Matt asked. "Surely what he’s doing is breaking the law."

 

"He’s done more good than harm," Laurel said, her voice almost too steady, but her heartbeat drumming a fast cadence still. "If it weren’t for him, the terrorists would have won, and who knows what would have happened then?"

 

"Has he?" Matt asked mildly. "Done more good than harm, I mean? How many people has he killed?"

 

"Lots fewer than he’s saved," Laurel countered. "Including me, a couple of times."

 

"Then I owe him a debt. The world – my world – would be a poorer place without you. Even if I am lousy at keeping in touch."

 

That made Laurel laugh, as he’d hoped it would. Then she said, "I’m surprised you’re asking about him, given the Avengers are based in New York. Haven’t those legal issues already come up?"

 

"Not the same," Matt said, then paused as one of the serving staff – female, judging by the perfume that irritated his nose – arrived with their trays. Matt took a few seconds to familiarize himself with the tray and its contents – burger to the right, fries to the left – and then take a bite of the burger.

 

"Well?" Laurel asked.

 

It wasn’t as greasy as he’d expected, though it was heavier than he was used to, so Matt could be mostly honest when he said, "Good. I get why you missed it."

 

"I ate here every night for a week after I got home," Laurel said, and Matt heard her take another bite. She had the manners to chew and swallow before she said, "Why isn’t it the same?"

 

"Aliens invaded," Matt kept his tone deliberately dry. "There’s a big difference between fighting to save the world and going after – what? Drug dealers, corrupt businessmen?"

 

"Is there?" Laurel asked. "I’m not so sure."

 

"Oh?"

 

"I was, once. Not that long ago, even. I thought he was a criminal, and I lured him into a trap."

 

"That's not a counter-argument," Matt couldn't resist pointing out.

 

"It's background," Laurel said, and Matt nodded an acknowledgment. "It was right after the destruction of the Glades. I would've died, but a friend got me out." Matt heard her swallow, hard, before she added, "He died."

 

"I'm sorry."

 

"The Arrow - only he was the Hood, then - was there, too, and he couldn't save my friend. I was angry and hurting, and unemployed - and -" Laurel broke off, swallowing again. "It was a very bad time for me."

 

Matt stretched his hand across the table in her general direction. A moment later, she reached for it, gripping almost hard enough to make him wince. He kept his expression neutral and waited for her to speak again.

 

"The Hood had killed so many people, even though he helped others, but he couldn't stop the undertaking that destroyed half of the Glades." Laurel's voice was steadier now, and her heartbeat had slowed fractionally. "And when the police wanted to bring him up on charges, I was glad to help trap him."

 

"What happened?" Matt murmured.

 

"He got away." It was Laurel's turn to keep her tone dry, and Matt chuckled. "But that seemed to be a turning point for him, when he started being more … I don't know. More of a hero, less of a vigilante, maybe?"

 

"It sounds like you're splitting hairs, counselor."

 

"Maybe I am. But something my father said keeps coming back to me." Matt heard Laurel shift in her seat, felt her presence move closer to him. She'd leaned forward, he realized, and when she spoke, it was with the conviction of an attorney making a closing argument. "I found something out, something that would let the police arrest him. When I went to tell my father, he said he didn't want to know. He said that what the Arrow had become, the symbol, was the most important thing. And that's why I don't think there's a difference between the Avengers and the Arrow - they're both symbols, and almost more important as symbols than they are as actual people."

 

That was something he'd have to think about, Matt decided. Maybe even talk to Father Lantom about. At what point does the symbol overtake the person?

 

"Why all the talk about vigilantes?" Laurel asked, her lighter tone bringing him back to the moment. "Seems like an odd conversational choice for a couple of old friends getting reacquainted."

 

Matt wiped his hands, too accustomed by now to the rough texture of most paper napkins to grimace. "Because one’s shown up in Hell’s Kitchen recently."

 

"Trying to decide whether you’d defend him? Or her?"

 

"No, I’ve already decided that." Above and beyond the conflict of interest, there was the old saying to consider, that a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client.

 

"Then why so interested?"

 

Matt shrugged. "It’s an interesting situation, and Starling City’s the only other place facing it that I know of. If you were prosecuting, and if anyone ever prosecutes ours, comparing the cases would be fun."

 

Laurel laughed, and this time her tone was honestly lighter. "You have an odd definition of fun."

 

Matt set his napkin aside, reached for the last of his milkshake. "It’s not like I watch a lot of TV."

 

"It’s not like you’re missing much," Laurel countered. "Still – following trials? You’re a lawyer’s lawyer, Matt."

 

"I only follow interesting cases." Only the ones that might impact his life, but he couldn’t tell her that.

 

"If you say so. You’re in town until Saturday, then?"

 

"Sunday morning. I don’t do red-eyes if I can avoid them."

 

"I don’t blame you," Laurel said with feeling. "They’re irritating for everyone, and more so if you have difficulties with your circadian rhythm, which I’ve heard a lot of blind people do."

 

Matt felt his eyebrows rising. "Hear a lot about blind people, do you?"

 

"When I was with CNRI, we had a blind client with that disorder."

 

"CNRI?"

 

"City Necessary Resources Initiative. We helped people in need, the ones who couldn’t necessarily afford a bigger firm, or who had been turned down by the bigger firms, or who the bigger firms didn’t want to take on."

 

"That sounds like the Laurel I remember. You’re not with them now?"

 

"We were in the part of the Glades that got destroyed. We could barely keep in business before that, and nobody was interested in helping us rebuild."

 

"That’s rough," Matt said. "Still a big jump from that to the DA’s office."

 

Laurel paused, and Matt heard her stirring the dregs of her milkshake. "I went through some rough times last year. The DA took a chance on me, and I’m grateful."

 

That wasn’t the whole of the story, Matt thought, judging by the jump in her pulse and the barely-noticeable tremor in her voice. He wouldn’t press, though – they’d been friends in college, but that didn’t give him the right to pry now.

 

Instead, he lifted his milkshake glass. "Here’s to taking chances."

 

Her glass impacted his with a dull _clink_. "To taking chances."

 

They slurped the last of their milkshakes and then Matt said, "I hope I’m not keeping you too long."

 

"That depends," Laurel said. "Is this the only time I can see you this trip?"

 

Matt smiled in response to her teasing tone. "Only if you want it to be."

 

"Then I probably should get back," Laurel said. "But tell me where you’re staying, and we can have dinner later, if you want?"

 

"The Starling Grand," Matt said, rising as he heard the scrape of Laurel’s chair. "It’s where the seminar is."

 

"And close to lots of good places to eat," Laurel said. "So think about what you want for dinner."

 

"I will." Matt gathered his cane and felt Laurel stepping close. He reached out, felt his fingers brush against her sleeve, and took her arm to let her guide him through the restaurant.

 

They’d just emerged into the chilly afternoon when Matt heard a masculine voice. "Laurel?"

 

"Oliver, hi." Laurel’s tone didn’t change, but Matt picked up a slight increase in her pulse. No surprise, really, if this was the Oliver Queen she’d still been grieving when he met her in law school. "Very late lunch?"

 

"I finally convinced him to eat." Another male voice, deeper, coming from behind the first speaker. Matt’s enhanced senses told him the second speaker was bulkier than Oliver and military straight.

 

A bit of movement, and the second man moved closer as he said, "John Diggle."

 

"Matt Murdock." Matt held out his hand in the other man’s general direction.

 

"Good to meet you," Diggle said, shaking his hand. Diggle's grip was firm, steady. "Friend of Laurel’s?"

 

"We met in law school," Laurel said. "He kicked my ass in moot court."

 

"Moot court?" Diggle repeated, and Matt heard the puzzlement in his tone.

 

"Fancy lawyer term," Matt said. "Because make-believe court doesn’t sound lawyerly enough."

 

Diggle and the other man – Oliver – chuckled.

 

"I’m sure you gave him a good fight," Oliver said. Then the sound of his voice shifted as he addressed Matt directly. "Oliver Queen."

 

"Best opponent I’ve had. Matt Murdock." Again he offered his hand, and Oliver took it in a surprisingly calloused grip. Then again, Matt supposed that spending five years on a deserted island would result in callouses in places where a wealthy man shouldn’t have them.

 

"I’ve got to get back," Laurel said. Matt picked up the shift in her pulse, but whether she was lying, excited, or nervous, he couldn’t tell.

 

"Don’t let us keep you," Oliver said. "Good to meet you, Mr. Murdock."

 

"You, too, Mr. Queen. Mr. Diggle."

 

He took Laurel’s arm again and let her lead him away from Big Belly Burger. She was quiet, and he let it linger, surprised by how pleasant the moment was even without conversation.

 

"Here we are," Laurel said after a while. "I can call you a cab, if you want?"

 

"No need," Matt said. "GPS in my phone should get me back to the hotel. It got me here, after all."

 

Laurel laughed. "I’ll call when I’m heading over, okay?"

 

"I’ll look forward to it," Matt answered.

 

"See you tonight." Laurel leaned forward and brushed a kiss against his cheek, and then she was gone in a click of heels and a breath of temperature-controlled air from the building.

 

Matt turned and started down the sidewalk. Dinner was only one thing to look forward to tonight, he reflected.

 

#

 

After a dinner that wasn't as fancy as he'd expected, Matt let Laurel drop him back at the Starling Grand and though he heard her pulse speed up when she leaned in to kiss him goodnight, he was torn between relief and disappointment that she didn't say anything to suggest she wasn't ready for their evening to end.

 

He'd been interested back in law school - of course he'd been interested, what person who liked women wouldn't have been? - but she'd been grieving and he'd never dared presume on it, so they'd only been friends. Now, though, she wasn't grieving and he'd thought there might have been a chance for them to be something more than friends. Maybe there still was, but not tonight, for whatever reason.

 

Still, that meant Matt could pursue his other objective for coming to Starling City tonight and, if he achieved it, a chance with Laurel might materialize tomorrow night.

 

For now, though, he waited until Laurel's footsteps indicated she was several blocks away before turning and heading around the hotel. When he'd made the decision to come to Starling City, he'd asked Foggy to describe the Starling Grand Hotel to him.

 

"Neo-Gothic style," Foggy had said. "Lots of brick and fancy masonry work."

 

"Climbable?" he'd asked, and then wished he could've seen Foggy's expression.

 

"For the average person? Probably not. For you… maybe. Fifteen stories."

 

Between checking in and going to see Laurel, he'd scoped out the hotel. Definitely climbable, even an easy climb as he'd discovered when he climbed it earlier.

 

Now Matt retreated to a far corner where the lights weren't as bright - or so he assumed due to the lack of fixtures he could sense. He withdrew a pair of gloves from a pocket, slipped them on, and then started the climb up the side of the hotel. Minutes later, he'd reached the roof and the duffel bag he'd stashed there earlier.

 

He'd only brought what Foggy had called his "urban ninja outfit" - individually, each piece was innocuous. That wasn't the case for his new armor. If nothing else, the horned headpiece would've raised eyebrows in the airport security line.

 

So he'd opted for basic black rather than advertise that two of Hell's Kitchen's own were in Starling City at the same time. Not that most people would even consider that a blind man could be the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, but caution was ingrained now, thanks both to years at an orphanage and Stick's training.

 

When he was dressed, headscarf firmly in place, he strode to a corner and stepped onto the cornice, opening his senses to everything Starling City had to offer.

 

Garbage, for a start, he noted, even near as fancy a place as the Starling Grand. Railroad tracks, a river, enough tall buildings to baffle his perceptions at this height.

 

Time to get to know the city, at least a little.

 

#

 

An hour later, Matt had made his way to what smelled and sounded like a warehouse district - except for the music coming from one of the buildings. From the number of people going in and out, Matt assumed it was some kind of nightclub.

 

 _Hell of a place for a nightclub,_ he thought. But New York had its own set of oddities, so he didn't have much room to talk.

 

Regardless, this wasn't the place he'd find the kind of trouble he was looking for, so Matt moved on, running across the roof, jumping across an alley to the next building, letting instinct choose his direction as he unconsciously sorted the sounds of Starling City.

 

Cars. The occasional siren. Air conditioning systems. Beneath them all, he heard a fast tapping, more a clicking sound.

 

_Heels. Too high to actually run in, but walking as fast as she can._

 

Matt assumed that meant the same thing here as it did in Hell's Kitchen. Orienting himself to the sound and estimating the distance as best he could in this unfamiliar city, he sprinted across the roof, leapt across an alley to the next building, crossed two more rooftops, and paused to listen again.

 

The footsteps sounded even faster now, and now that he was closer, Matt could distinguish another set - a measured, heavy tread - that seemed to be following the woman.

 

Matt oriented himself again, took off across another two rooftops, paused.

 

 _Much better._ The footsteps sounded from below and to his left. He'd found the right street, then, before anything happened - and something was going to happen, Matt thought, and sooner than later to judge by the thrumming heartbeats he heard.

 

Still, he couldn't convict before evidence presented itself, so Matt turned to pace the woman below, easily keeping up with her staccato steps. The man's measured tread followed inexorably.

 

Then the woman turned off the street, down an alley. Matt listened, hearing fewer working streetlamps than the street she'd been on. He could only hope the woman was close to home, that she wasn't stupid enough to have dodged into the alley to try to lose her pursuer. Predators preferred the dark. He should know.

 

Sure enough, the pursuer's pace quickened, as did his breathing, anticipatory of whatever he had planned.

 

Then Matt heard what he'd been waiting for, the _snap_ of a switchblade opening and an indrawn breath, felt the movement of the man as he lunged.

 

The slap of flesh on flesh as he caught the woman, her sharp gasp, then an indrawn breath. Matt assumed she was about to scream.

 

"Quiet," the man below snarled. "Or your tongue'll be the first to go."

 

That surely qualified as evidence beyond a reasonable doubt, Matt decided. Even as the thought formed, he was dropping into the alley below.

 

It was over in seconds. Matt dropped from the roof to land behind the man, jabbing him several times in a kidney. The man was stocky and strong, so the blows didn’t cripple him, but he was unsteady when he whirled and slashed clumsily with the switchblade.

 

Matt dodged under the swing, grabbed the man’s wrist and spun, flinging him headfirst into the wall of the nearest building. He settled into a ready stance, waiting, but the man didn’t move.

 

_They're tougher in the Kitchen._

 

Matt turned toward the woman. She’d pressed herself back against the opposite wall, and her breathing hadn’t yet returned to normal.

 

"I thought the Arrow wore green," she said.

 

"I do." The voice from behind and above was punctuated by the _twang_ of a bowstring on release.

 

Instinct took over, and Matt whirled, snatching the arrow out of the air.

 

"Go home," the same voice, unrecognizable through a voice modulator, ordered.

 

Matt took a step to his right, allowing the woman more room to leave. Her panicked footsteps echoed behind her.

 

"I’m not the bad guy." Matt angled his face toward the source of the voice. "The bad guy’s in a pile by the wall."

 

"That only means you’re not _that_ bad guy," the voice answered.

 

Matt couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his mouth. Maybe the Arrow was a lawyer, too. "Fair enough. Do you want this back?"

 

He held out the arrow he’d caught and waited.

 

"Put it down and step back."

 

Matt obliged, taking three large steps backward. The Arrow dropped down lightly, scooped up the arrow and returned it to his quiver.

 

"Who are you?" he asked.

 

Matt grinned again. "You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you?"

 

The Arrow barked a laugh and seemed surprised that he had. Then, "What do you want?"

 

"To learn from you."

 

"I protect this city." The protest was automatic, but no less forceful as a result.

 

"Good thing I’m based elsewhere," Matt quipped. Then, "I don’t want to intrude or presume, but I would like to shorten my learning curve so I can be more effective more quickly."

 

"More effective at what?"

 

"Protecting the weak from the bullies, the sheep from the wolves, the prey from predators."

 

"Poetic."

 

"I would’ve said trite, and maybe even condescending," Matt countered. "But I don’t know any other words to use."

 

"Which one were you? The weak, the sheep, or the prey?"

 

Matt snorted. "None of the above. I was just the unlucky kid caught in the middle."

 

There was a long pause, and for a brief moment, Matt wished he could meet the other man’s gaze directly. He didn’t indulge in that kind of fantasy often, but in this moment, his guard slipped.

 

In the relative silence, Matt realized that they weren’t entirely alone. The Arrow wore a communications device in his ear. No normal human could’ve picked up the faint electronic hum the device gave off, much less that there was a woman’s voice on the other end of the comm.

 

But even his senses couldn’t make out what the woman was saying, and as a result, Matt felt nervous for the first time since he’d sat the bar exam.

 

Finally, the Arrow exhaled. "Follow. Observe. Do what I say when I say."

 

#

 

By the time the Arrow called it a night, they’d stopped a bank robbery and two more muggings in progress. Matt was pleased that many of the Arrow’s methods and goals were compatible with his own, and said as much when they paused on the rooftop of the nightclub Matt had noticed earlier that night.

"Too many people have failed this city," the Arrow replied. "I won't be one of them. Not again."

 

"Again?" The question was out before Matt thought, but he let it lie without retraction or apology.

 

His only answer was silence for long minutes. Finally, the rasp of leather against leather told Matt the other man had turned toward him. "Had enough?"

 

"For the night, maybe," Matt countered. "Everybody has to sleep sometime."

 

"As little as possible." There was another pause, then, "Eleven tomorrow night. Here."

 

Matt nodded once, then turned away, orienting himself by the sound of the river before dashing across the roof in a direction tangential to the Starling Grand. He didn’t expect that the Arrow would follow him, but a little paranoia was healthy in his chosen line of work. Both of them, actually.

 

When he was certain he wasn’t being followed, Matt turned back toward the Starling Grand. Minutes later, he was in his room, checking the time on his cell phone. Two a.m. – earlier than he would've thought, given the amount of ground he’d covered with the Arrow.

 

Apparently, the other man valued efficiency as well as effectiveness.

 

He also had far more resources than Matt did, not least of which was the woman on the other end of the communication device he wore in his ear. She was some kind of computer expert, Matt thought, judging by the things the Arrow had asked her. The voice modulator couldn't hide the softness in his tone when he spoke to her, so Matt concluded she was important to him. Matt wished them well, even if that might be a vain hope.

 

Matt stripped, pondering his evening. It had been different than what he'd expected - though now, looking back, he wondered that he could have expected anything at all, even the Arrow's agreement to let him tag along.

 

Quickly, he washed out his shirt and trousers and tossed them over the shower rod to dry overnight. Or over-morning, as the case may be.

 

Thanks to a relatively early night, he'd be able to get almost six hours of sleep before he had to attend the CLE seminar. He set the alarm on his cell phone and slipped into the scratchy discomfort of well-bleached cotton sheets that reminded him of the sheets at the orphanage - even if the mattress was exponentially softer.

 

Yes, he decided, it had been a good day.

 

 


	5. Justified

Of course they were in a firefight when it started, Deputy U.S. Marshal Rachel Brooks thought. Given that the two deputies on either side of her had a tendency toward trigger-happiness, where else would anything start?

 

The kicker was that today shouldn’t have included a firefight. Their Chief Deputy, Art Mullen, and his wife had invited them to an end-of-summer barbecue, and they’d decided to carpool to and from, mostly because Rachel knew that Raylan Givens and Tim Gutterson would have BACs somewhere north of the legal limit before the night was over. Rachel herself rarely had more than one drink at a time, so she was the logical person to drive them home afterward. Assuming, of course, they ever got to Art’s house in the first place.

 

That afternoon was one of the few times Rachel could remember Art taking off early, muttering something about stopping at the butcher shop on the way home. Raylan had mused that it wasn’t often in his experience that stopping at the butcher shop required three extra hours, and Art ignored the ribbing. Not half an hour after Art left, they’d gotten a report that a fugitive, Marlon Keller, had been seen outside Lexington and would they go out to investigate? In what Rachel was already calling a fit of temporary insanity, the three deputies had decided that Keller’s location was "on the way" to Art’s place, so why not check that out and then go have barbecue?

 

It sounded simple enough, so they’d piled into Raylon’s Town Car, with Raylan behind the wheel. Tim had offered Rachel the shotgun seat, and she wasn’t certain how to interpret that gesture. Certainly Tim could be as polite as anyone in Kentucky, but his sniper habits sometimes overrode that courtesy, especially when it came to riding shotgun, Tim’s preferred seat if he weren’t driving. Today, though, he sat quietly in the seat behind Raylan. Rachel suppressed the urge to ask him if he were all right -- it was Tim. He could be bleeding out and his last words would be, "I’m fine."

 

Ten minutes out of their way, Raylan turned onto a country lane leading through the trees to a secluded trailer. He killed the engine, and stepped out of the car. Rachel wasn’t certain exactly what happened after that, but Rayland had dived behind the front end of the Town Car, Tim barreled out of the back seat, and Rachel found herself scrambling across the driver’s seat and onto the ground between Tim and Raylan. For a moment, the three deputies just sat there, letting the bullets fly from Keller or whoever had decided to open up on them, as they readied their own weapons.

 

"I count four shooters," Tim said.

 

"Two on the right, two on the left," Raylan agreed.

 

Another round flew over their heads.

 

"Make that five. Must’ve been out of sight behind the window," Tim corrected. Rachel glared at him, and he lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Despite what you may have heard, I don’t have X-ray vision."

 

"Leave that in Afghanistan, did you?" Raylan quipped, then continued, "You go right, I’ll take the two on the left."

 

"Givin’ me three’s hardly fair."

 

"Hotshot sniper can’t handle three?"

 

"I’ll take the one in the center," Rachel offered.

 

As one, the men beside her stiffened.

 

"We got this," Raylan said.

 

"Flip ya for number five?" Tim suggested.

 

"Ain’t got a quarter." Raylan held out his fist.

 

Rachel alternated scowls between the two men, wishing that she weren’t in the center so she could glare at both of them at the same time. "Seriously? Rock, paper, scissors?"

 

Tim held out his hand, and in the space of a few heartbeats, the game was over.

 

"Paper covers rock," Raylan said. "You got three."

 

"I’m right here," Rachel protested as Tim grumbled, "Just ‘cause I was a sniper…."

 

"And you can’t raise your weapon without putting me or Tim in your sights." Raylan checked his weapon once more. "We got this, Rachel. Ready?" he added to Tim.

 

"On three." Tim counted it out and then the two men rose and turned almost as one. Rachel would’ve sworn she’d only heard three shots, but when they dropped beside her, her colleagues wore identical expressions of grim satisfaction. Those faded into frowns when another burst of gunfire exploded from the trailer.

 

"Well, shit," Raylan said. Rachel agreed that pretty much summed it up.

 

"Let me talk to him," Tim said, then scowled. Rachel knew he could read her surprise at his suggestion and could only assume Raylan was as shocked as she was. "What? I didn’t skip class when they covered talking a man down at Glynco."

 

"Be my guest," Raylan said, then added in a mock whisper to Rachel, "This oughtta be good."

 

"Marlon Keller?" Tim called, and was answered by a shotgun blast. "C’mon, we can be civilized about this, can’t we? At least hear me out before you go trying to shoot my head off."

 

The response this time was a voice rather than a shot. "Talk fast."

 

"Before you take another shot," Tim said, no faster than his normal drawl, "y'might want to take a minute to ponder your situation."

 

"My situation? The hell you mean, my situation?"

 

"Take a look around. It’s you against three highly-trained U.S. Marshals who, I might add, just took down your friends. D’you really like your chances?" Tim paused, let the silence stretch. "All y’gotta do is put your gun down and show us your hands, and we can all call it a day."

 

Another silence, followed by, "All right, I’m comin’ out. Don’t shoot!"

 

Rachel let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and rose with her colleagues to train her weapon on Marlon Keller.

 

"Cuff ‘im," Raylan told her. "I’ll check the others."

 

Minutes later, Marlon Keller was in handcuffs and Rachel was on the phone calling for an ambulance and the local police. Beside her, she heard Raylan speaking into his cell. "Art? Apologies to Leslie, but we’re gonna be a little late for the barbecue."

 

#

 

Rachel thought over how to handle the situation through the barbecue, the weekend that followed, and the week after that. She didn’t want to take it to Art before she’d tried to resolve it herself. The only question was, how should she approach her fellow marshals? She considered and discarded various possibilities, until Raylan offered to buy drinks after work the following Friday.

 

That, Rachel decided, was the opportunity she’d been waiting for. She could talk to them in a more casual environment, not make it out to be a big deal.

 

Unfortunately, she had to make a last-minute appearance at court, so she couldn’t walk out with her co-workers. Still, Rachel knew their favorite watering holes, and it wasn't long before she found her fellow marshals sprawled at a table in Bud's Place. Their posture might appear casual to someone who didn't know them, but Rachel noted that both men had angled their chairs so they could watch not only the entrance to the bar but also the hallway to the bathrooms.

 

"So who's the greatest sniper in history?" Raylan was asking as Rachel approached.

 

Tim nodded a greeting to her before answering, "Most people would say Carlos Hathcock, served in Vietnam. Ninety-three confirmed kills, including one--" he shook his head, took the last swallow from a mug of beer at his elbow.

 

Rachel debated only a moment before taking an empty seat at the table with them. There was no reason they couldn't keep this civilized. She'd even let them finish their discussion before she lit into them. "One what?"

 

"One shot that's still a legend," Tim answered. He sat a little straighter in his chair, fixed first her, then Raylan with that intense gaze of his. "Hathcock was in the jungle, caught a flash of light off an enemy sniper's scope, turned and fired in an instant. The bullet went _through_ the enemy scope and into the other sniper's eye. Fucking incredible."

 

Raylan whistled, low, and even Rachel had to admit it was impressive. A waitress arrived then, with two more mugs for the men, and Rachel ordered a glass of wine for herself.

 

"You said most people would say him," Raylan observed. "You don't agree?"

 

"Not to take anything away from Hathcock," Tim said, "but I'd say Simo Hayha. Finnish guy, nicknamed the White Death, served in the Winter War." Rachel supposed her expression was as blank as Raylan's. Tim let out an exaggerated sigh. "Winter War -- 1939 to 1940. Russia invaded Finland."

 

"How many kills has he got?" Raylan asked.

 

"Depends how you count."

 

"Most people count startin' at one, and continuing 'til they're done counting whatever it is they're counting. One, two, three, and so on."

 

Tim glared at Raylan without real heat. "Not all of 'em were with a rifle, smartass."

 

"Takes one to know one," Raylan drawled. Rachel glared at him, exasperated, then asked Tim, "Why does it matter which gun he used?"

 

Tim grinned suddenly, the expression making him look younger, less care-worn. "'Cause it's only mildly humiliating if you just count the ones with a rifle. Massively humiliating if you count 'em all."

 

"How many?" Raylan repeated.

 

"Seven hundred and change." Tim's nonchalance belied the enormity of the number. "Five hundred five with an iron-sighted bolt-action rifle. The rest with a submachine gun. The kicker? All in less than four months."

 

"Jesus," Raylan muttered, before taking another swallow of beer. Then he fixed Tim with a gaze he normally reserved for sighting down his Glock. "How many you got?"

 

"That's a personal question." Tim lapsed into silence, but Raylan just kept staring at him. Finally, Tim lifted one shoulder, let it fall. "More'n Hathcock, less'n Hayha."

 

Raylan snorted. "That narrows it down some. Thanks."

 

"Have there been any women snipers?" Rachel asked, drawn in by Tim's uncharacteristic openness and curious in spite of herself.

 

"Ayep. Since at least World War Two."

 

"But none serving now." Rachel hated the resignation in her tone.

 

Tim pointed at her with his beer mug. "There you'd be wrong. There's a certain type of woman uniquely suited to being a sniper, and a fair number of them enlist."

 

Rachel felt her eyebrows climbing. "What _type of woman_ would that be?"

 

"The ruthless bitch," Tim said simply. Raylan nearly choked on a swallow of beer. Tim watched him wipe his mouth, then looked back at Rachel. "You asked."

 

"I did," Rachel acknowledged. And privately she admitted that she'd known quite a few of that type of woman in her life. Then curiosity compelled her once again. "If you were to compile a list of the top snipers, would any women be on it?"

 

"At least one," Tim said. "Ludmila Pavlichenko. Three hundred nine confirmed kills."

 

"You got more'n her?" Raylan asked.

 

"You keep askin' personal questions, I might have to increase the number by one." Tim took another drink of his beer.

 

There was the opening Rachel had been waiting for. "So you don’t have any objections to women in combat?"

 

"In theory, no," Tim answered. "In practice, yeah. But those decisions are above my pay grade. Or were, when I was still in the Army." He fixed her with a gaze that probably should have been more drunken than it was. "Why?"

 

Rachel smiled sweetly. "I wondered if that explained what happened at Marlon Keller's place last week."

 

"What happened?"

 

Anger surged through her at Raylan’s question. "You don’t remember keeping me out of a firefight where we were outgunned with a bullshit excuse?"

 

Raylan and Tim exchanged a glance, then looked back at her wearing identical expressions of attempted innocence.

 

"Bullshit excuse?" Raylan repeated.

 

"Do you honestly think I don’t know how to keep my weapon safe? Not put you in the line of fire?" Rachel fought to keep her voice steady. Even now, a week later, she was still angry enough that her hand shook against the stem of her wineglass. "I wouldn’t have passed Glynco if I couldn’t. So, yeah, it was a bullshit excuse."

 

Both men suddenly found their beer mugs far more interesting than she was. Rachel let them avoid her gaze for the time it took her to down a larger-than-normal swallow of wine and return her wineglass to the table.

 

"Are either of you going to give me the real excuse?" she asked.

 

Tim looked up at her, and for a moment she thought he was going to answer, but he gave the smallest shake of his head she’d ever seen and looked away again. Raylan didn’t even do that much.

 

Rachel let out a breath, trying to calm the renewed crash of anger in her blood, the anger demanding that she do something, anything, to demonstrate once and for all that these men, her colleagues, her comrades, and, she’d thought, her friends, had betrayed her and that there would be no coming back from this moment.

 

The battle between her conscious self, the Rachel that valued her job and, yes, these men, and her non-conscious self, the Rachel that valued her true selfhood more than anything else, raged inside her for long moments before victory was claimed.

 

"Well." Rachel’s mouth compressed into a thin line. "It looks like there’s only one more thing to say."

 

She stood and reached for the two mugs. Quickly, she dumped the contents over her fellow deputies. "Enjoy your beer."

 

#

 

Only one person would knock on her door before seven a.m. on a Saturday morning. Already dressed, if casually in a t-shirt and jeans, Rachel opened the door to see Tim Gutterson.

 

"Paper cover rock again?" she asked sarcastically.

 

Tim grimaced. "Raylan cheated."

 

Astonished curiosity overcame her anger. "How do you cheat at rock, paper, scissors?"

 

"Lizard, Spock," Tim answered with a shrug. "I don’t get it, either. … Come for a walk with me?"

 

The request surprised her. "We can talk here."

 

"Rather your nephew doesn’t listen in. Kid’s got too many crazy ideas about war as it is."

 

About war? It was an odd phrasing, Rachel thought as she grabbed her keys and locked the house behind her. But this was Tim, and he’d come to see her. The least she could do was hear him out.

 

"Remember last night Raylan kept asking how many kills some snipers had?" Tim said once they were halfway down the block from Rachel’s house, angling toward Thoroughbred Park.

 

"I remember you threatening to kill him if he asked about yours one more time."

 

Tim chuckled wryly. "Maybe that was a little extreme." He fell silent for a few steps before adding, "I don’t like to talk about my service."

 

"I know. I just never understood why."

 

"’Cause once you start, it never stops. Like a kid who keeps asking, are we there yet? The questions just keep coming, and most people don’t really want to know the answer." He paused again. "Most times, I don’t really want to say the answer, either."

 

Rachel nodded in what she hoped was an understanding way. Knowing Tim, this had something to do with her concern, but she had no idea what connections he was making. She’d learned over the years they’d worked together that he’d explain things in his own time and his own way. All she had to do was contain her impatience.

 

"A hundred and twelve. Not including my time with the Marshals." Tim looked at her. "Every one of them a crack in my soul."

 

She hadn’t expected a flash of poetry from him. "What do you mean?"

 

"Like Hayha said, I only did my duty as well as I could. But that duty, killin’ people --" Tim took a breath, let it out, then started again. "Every time I pull the trigger means I just took someone’s life, even if it was in the service of the greater good, even if they were scum."

 

"The cracks in your soul," Rachel murmured.

 

"Yeah. And there ain’t enough spackle putty in the world to cover ‘em all. Rachel --" Tim stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, his hand on her arm gently turning her to face him. "You helped me out a lot when I started here. It’s small payback, but if I can keep you from needing spackle putty, I will."

 

Rachel felt the sting of tears at his simple declaration, clumsy but heartfelt, and took a moment to regain her composure. "As long as you don’t think I’m not as good as you."

 

"Well, you’re not. Unless you went through Ranger training that I don’t know about."

 

"As good a marshal," Rachel corrected herself. "I know I’m not as good a shot, but I’m good enough."

 

"You’re a better marshal’n I’ll ever be," Tim assured her. Rachel wanted to believe him, but found herself searching his eyes for any hint of deception. She found none, and let out a slow breath.

 

"Thanks for talking to me," she said. "And I won’t tell Raylan your number."

 

"Thanks for listening," he said. "And I didn’t expect you would. Buy you breakfast?"

 


	6. Librarians

Jacob Stone was a man with a mission.

 

He stalked the corridors of the Library with quick, purposeful steps as he searched for his quarry. In a place the size of the Library, Jake realized that his search could take a while - days, maybe, even weeks - but he would not give up until he found Flynn Carsen.

 

It was the sound of books falling to the floor - and Jake winced at the thought of what those books might be, how old, how fragile - that led him to his fellow Librarian. Jake turned between two bookshelves and found Flynn sitting on the floor with half a dozen books scattered around him in disarray, flipping through the one open on his lap.

 

"Got a minute, Flynn?" Jake leaned against the shelf across from Flynn.

 

"No, not really. I'm trying to track down the lost legion," Flynn said, which was sufficiently vague that Jake sought clarification.

 

"Which one?"

 

That got Flynn's attention enough that he paused in his search and looked up at Jake. "What do you mean, which one?"

 

"Seems simple enough. Do you mean the troops that were rumored to have escaped the slaughter at Carrhae, or do you mean the Ninth Hispana?"

 

"The actual legion," Flynn said. "I've heard rumors that its standard may have been found, but without anything more than that to go on…"

 

"Start with the Netherlands, move toward Judea," Stone suggested.

 

Flynn hesitated. "Why?"

 

Jake shrugged. "The last evidence we have for the Ninth indicates that it was at Noviomagus Batavorum around 120. About the same time, Judea was getting restless ahead of the Bar Kochba revolt of 132. If the Ninth were reassigned from Noviomagus Batavorum, it was probably sent to Judea."

 

"Huh." Flynn looked surprised. "I thought it went missing in Scotland."

 

"Most people did, until they found the Noviomagus Batavorum inscriptions in the 90s." Jake tried to keep his tone neutral but couldn't prevent the twitch of his lips. He respected Flynn, but occasionally the man's ego needed a little deflation.

 

"I guess I'm off to … where is Noviomagus Batavorum?"

 

"The Netherlands. Nijmegen."

 

"Off to the Netherlands, then."

 

Flynn scrambled to his feet and started past Jake, but Jake stopped him with a hand on his chest. Flynn glanced down at his hand, then frowned at Jake.

 

"Y'need to re-shelve those books, Librarian."

 

"But the legion's standard -"

 

"Is not currently a threat, is it?"

 

Flynn blinked. "Well, no, but -"

 

"Then put the books back. Ties into what I want t' talk t' ya about."

 

"Can't it wait?" Flynn looked at Jake. "Guess not. What's so important?"

 

"This." Jake gestured to the clutter of books on the floor. "You're messy."

 

"You know what they say, it's a sign of creativity."

 

"Y'wanna keep your desk a jumble, that's your business. Keepin' the Library organized, that's all our business."

 

"I know where everything is."

 

"Do you?"

 

"Yes."

 

Jake straightened. "How long did it take you to find Bathsheba's Oil when Eve was hurt?"

 

Flynn blinked. "Ah -"

 

"Too long," Jake answered for him. "She damn near bled out while you were trying to find it.

 

"But she didn't," Flynn said, brightening. "She's good as new."

 

" _This_ time. But what happens next time? Or the time after that?"

 

"She's a Guardian. She's tough, it comes with the job description."

 

"But she's not invincible," Jake said, angry all over again that Flynn needed to be reminded of that fact. "None of us are, and we need to be prepared."

 

Flynn snorted. "Bet you have jumper cables in your truck back home, too."

 

Jake supposed that was meant to be an insult, but he just gave Flynn one of his good-ol'-boy smiles.

 

"And a first-aid and emergency kit. Not a truck, though. See, out in the sticks, we can't count on someone dropping by in the next few minutes. Or hours. Or days. Gotta be ready to help yourself if no one else can."

 

Flynn had the grace to look embarrassed, if only for a second. Then he rallied. "Look, Eve's my Guardian -"

 

"You really believe that, don't you?" Jake shook his head. "Look, it doesn't matter whose Guardian she is. She's my friend - all our friend. And you don't get to risk her life - or Cassie's, or Jones' for that matter- because you're lazy, or scatterbrained, or bored, or whatever it is. Got it?"

 

Flynn blew out a breath. "I've been the Librarian - the only Librarian - for ten years. I haven't had to think about anyone else, not even a Guardian, for a long time."

 

Some of Jake's anger bled away. He understood how easy it could be to fall into routines. His own had kept him in Oklahoma far too long.

 

"You do now," he said.

 

"I do now," Flynn agreed.

 

#

 

Eve Baird lingered in the Library long after first Flynn's and then Stone's footsteps faded. She'd come to reacquaint - or rather, acquaint - herself with it. She'd been in it only a few times and still wasn't familiar enough with its layout.

 

She hadn't heard Flynn arrive, and maybe he'd been there before she had come in, but she had heard Stone. Something in the pace and emphasis of his footsteps had kept her to her own task rather than interrupting his.

 

Then there'd been the conversation between him and Flynn.

 

Not only was Eve certain she shouldn't have eavesdropped, however unintentionally, she was also fairly certain she shouldn't have been able to eavesdrop, given the size and layout of the Library itself.

 

Yet she'd heard every word.

 

A suspicion - that the Library had meant for her to hear it - tickled at the back of her awareness, but Eve shoved it down. Just like she would never call the Spirit of Goodwill "Santa," she would never quite admit that the Library itself was somehow sentient.

 

Still, at moments like this, when the laws of physics or acoustics or whatever seemed to bend in a very specific way or toward a specific purpose, Eve had to wonder.

 

More specifically, which precise part of that conversation had she been meant to overhear?

 

 


	7. Star Trek Alternate Original Series (2009 Reboot)

_"Welcome back, Captain," Spock said. Jim knew he was being formal because they were in public. "I trust the cadets and junior officers performed adequately."_

_"Better than anyone had a right to expect," Jim said, "under the circumstances."_

_"It is strange that a training cruise should have involved a conflict with the Klingons."_

_Jim grinned at the dry observation. "You'll have to ask Starfleet Intelligence how a Klingon cruiser got that deep into Federation space without anyone knowing. Still, there's nothing like a little conflict to bring out the best - or the worst - in people."_

_"Indeed."_

 

* * *

 

When Jim stepped onto the bridge of the U.S.S. _Cochrane_ , he surveyed it quickly _._ It was smaller than the bridge of the _Enterprise_ , but the layout was similar.

 

"Captain on the bridge." The announcement came as expected, but it wasn't in Chekov's thick Russian accent. Instead, it came with a slight French accent from Cadet Deloungeville at the tactical station.

 

Jim paused just far enough inside the bridge to clear the turbolift and glanced to the communications station at his left. "Give me allcall, please, Cadet Nibrydowski."

 

The gold-skinned woman blinked in what might have been surprise on a human but recovered quickly. "Aye, sir. You have allcall."

 

"Attention, crew of the _Cochrane,_ " he said, and he was glad there was no hesitation before he spoke the ship's name. "This is Captain Kirk. Our mission will take us to New Vulcan to deliver what we hope are the last of the starter agricultural supplies the colony will need. For some of you, this is your last training cruise before your permanent assignments. For others, it's your first chance to experience what it's like aboard a real starship rather than a simulation. In either case, I look forward to serving with all of you. Kirk out."

 

He stepped down toward the center seat, where a man whose carrot-red hair clashed with his command gold tunic rose to greet him.

 

"Captain," the man said.

 

"Lieutenant Louis," Jim countered, and wondered why the other man looked as surprised as Nibrydowski had. "Status?"

 

"All departments except Engineering report ready, Captain."

 

Jim frowned. "What's wrong with Engineering?"

 

"Nothing, so far as I know," Louis replied. "They just haven't reported in yet."

 

Jim stepped past Louis to toggle a switch on the armrest. "Bridge to Engineering. Lieutenant Cnyvet?"

 

"Engineering, Cnyvet." The response came back quickly enough, though Cnyvet's tone was just a touch frazzled, and Jim's concern deepened.

 

"Status," Jim ordered.

 

"We'd be ready to leave, sir, except -"

 

"Except?" Jim allowed a little impatience to color his tone.

 

"Well, we have guests, sir, and they're … not ready to depart just yet."

 

"What _guests_ could we possibly have?"

 

"Uh - " the lieutenant sounded uncertain.

 

Jim turned to Nibrydowski. "Put the security feed from Engineering on screen."

 

"Aye, sir. On screen."

 

Jim regarded the image on the screen. Two small non-humans, one Roylan and one Taneexian, were climbing - literally climbing - around the apparatus. Around him, Jim's crew were making startled, even surprised noises. He himself was struggling not to laugh - until one voice caught his attention.

 

"Security, get a crew to Engineering -" Louis was saying.

 

Jim cut him off. "Belay that. Cadet, give me an open channel to Engineering." He didn't wait for her acknowledgement, just continued, "Keenser. Kevin. What are you doing on this ship?"

 

"You know them, Captain?" Louis asked softly.

 

"They're part of the crew of _Enterprise,_ " Jim answered, equally softly. On the screen, Keenser had produced a padd from somewhere and held it up to face the camera. Without being told, Nibrydowski captured and enlarged the image from its screen.

 

Jim read the orders and suppressed a groan. Keenser and Kevin had both been assigned to the _Cochrane_ for this cruise. Apparently, Spock hadn't entirely believed his rationale for taking this assignment, and had sent a couple of helpers - or spies - along with him.

 

"All right," he said. "But get down, unless you want to be fried when we leave spacedock."

 

Jim turned away from the screen and found curious expressions greeting him from every nook of the bridge.

 

"Last-minute transfers," he explained. As in, half an hour ago transfers. He wondered just how many favors Spock had called in to get those two assigned to the _Cochrane_ on such short notice, and then wondered what Keenser and Kevin had planned to do before the sudden reassignment. He'd have to make it up to them, somehow.

 

"I see," Louis replied in a tone that suggested he didn't, but Jim wasn't inclined to explain any further. After a moment, Louis said, "You have the conn, sir."

 

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Let's take her out."


	8. "Bloodline" - A "Brothers" story (Leverage/Librarians)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking at the date I started this story, I cringe a bit. But it stalled out on me three times, and this morning I finally realized that it's not going anywhere I want to take it, so I'm posting it here. It takes place after "Guardians."

_FML._

 

Eliot Spencer quirked an eyebrow at the three-letter text from his twin, Jacob Stone. As far as he knew, Jake loved his job and was happy in a relationship with Maggie Collins. So there was only one response he could make.

 

_???_

 

Eliot used the moment before Jake’s reply came to scan the Bridgeport Brewpub. It was quiet, midafternoon on a Wednesday, only two tables occupied, one by a handful of college students and the other by a man and a woman in business clothes.

 

Quiet - especially quiet enough that he didn’t have to help out in the kitchen, but instead could enjoy a beer with the other patrons - was good, just what Eliot wanted after the Leverage crew’s last job, one that had taxed all of their skills and brought them closer to death than any other time…except maybe that job in D.C. for Michael Vance.

 

So Parker had declared they were taking downtime, and she and Hardison were off to Saudi Arabia - she wanted to rappel down the Abraj Al-Bait Clock Tower in Mecca. It was the only one of the five tallest buildings in the world she hadn’t yet jumped off or rappelled down, and she was determined to rectify that situation. Hardison grumbled, but offered to rig a camera for her so she could relive the experience whenever she wanted.

 

Eliot himself had a ticket for a flight to London that night, to join Mia at Chamblin House. They hadn’t planned further than that, and Eliot would be happy whatever they did, even if they never left the house. Maybe especially if they never left the house.

 

Eliot’s phone vibrated, pulling him from his reverie, and he read Jake’s text quickly.

 

_Pop’s crew unearthed something. AGAIN._

 

Again? Eliot didn’t the implications of that single word. Jake had told him about the trickster outside Wagner, Oklahoma, so his only question now was, _How bad?_

 

 _Not sure yet_ , Jake replied, _but we’ll handle it._

 

_Kick its ass, bro._

 

Eliot tossed his cell phone on the table and took a swallow of his beer - a local microbrew, not one of Hardison’s travesties of the brewer’s craft - still pondering the implications of one word.

 

_Again._

 

Once was chance. Twice was coincidence.

 

Eliot didn’t like coincidences. He liked them even less when his brother was involved.

 

The only question was, just how big was this coincidence?

 

Eliot was no Alec Hardison, but he did know how to use Google. He picked up his phone and opened a search window.

 

#

 

Jacob Stone wasn’t normally one to grumble about an assignment, but the sight of the “S” logo on the equipment at the mine site outside San Antonio drew a groan, and the only one he could share his frustration with was his twin brother.

 

It was a momentary impulse, and Eliot’s response, terse as it was, cheered him somewhat, and he put his phone back in his pocket.

 

“Jacob,” Cassandra said, her tone hesitant, “that - that’s your father’s company, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Jacob suppressed a sigh. “It is.”

 

"Are we going to the nearest bar?" Cassandra's tone was still hesitant, even tentative, and Jacob supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Cassandra remembered their conversation months before about the disrespect she and Ezekiel had shown his family when they went after the _hoklonote_ in Oklahoma.

 

"Didn't think Librarians got drunk on the job," Quinn observed.

 

"Not intentionally," Cassandra said. "And let's not talk about that time with Dorian Gray."

 

"Dorian -? You know, let's not talk about it," Quinn decided, then turned to Jacob. "How do we handle this?"

 

“I’m going to talk to the crew first,” Jacob said.

 

Quinn and Cassandra fell into step with Jacob as he crossed the work site to a knot of workers standing beside one of the trucks.

 

“Heard you had a spot of trouble this morning,” Jacob said.

 

“What’s it to you?” The man who spoke wore a hardhat and held a flashlight loosely in one hand.

 

“We’re from the archaeological society,” Jacob answered easily. “Just making sure there’s nothing down there that needs to be preserved.”

 

"Preserved?" The man stared at him as though he'd grown a second head. "Hell, no. Nothing down there needs to be preserved. Destroyed, maybe."

 

Jacob ignored Quinn's murmur of interest and asked, "No petroglyphs or pictographs?"

 

"Nah, man. Nothing like that. Guess you came all the way out here for nothing."

 

 _Not for nothing_ , Jacob thought. _Not the way the Clipping Book went off._

 

"What is down there? That needs to be destroyed?" Quinn prompted.

 

"Nothing," another, younger, man said. "Nothing's down there but an old mine, that's all. Could be the Los Almagres, maybe - Jim Bowie looked hard for it, never found it. Maybe we did."

 

Jacob nodded agreement, but the man wearing the hard hat was shaking his head. "Abandoned mines don't make that kind of noise."

 

"Noise?" Cassandra asked.

 

"Yeah, a knocking sound."

 

The younger man snorted. "Timbers creak, rock shifts. Happens in modern mines, too."

 

Hard Hat shrugged. "You believe what you want, but my granddad worked mines in Pennsylvania, and his dad dug tin in Cornwall. They told me all about the Knockers. That mine's not safe, and if Isaac Stone thinks he's going to keep drilling, he's dumber'n a box of rocks."

 

Cassandra tried to stifle a giggle. Jacob ignored her.

 

"You mind if we go take a look, just to be sure there's nothing down there that needs preserving?" Jacob asked.

 

"Yeah, sure." He offered the hard hat to Jacob. "I wouldn't take too long if I were you."

 

"We won't." Jacob settled the hard hat on his head. "Thanks."

 

#

 

Eliot pulled his Challenger into a spot next to the St. Johns Bridge and killed the engine. It was probably a good thing Hardison and Parker weren't in town - he didn't like what he'd found on his own, and would've liked what Hardison could find even less.

 

He sent a text to Mia, explaining he'd be delayed because Jake needed him, and then started for the mundane entrance to the Annex.

 

Eliot made his way to the main room quickly, surprised that he wasn't challenged on the way, and even more surprised that the room was deserted.

 

"Hello?" he called, his voice echoing in the open space.

 

Almost before the echo faded, a sword came flying through the doorway across the room from him, its point aimed straight at Eliot's heart.

 

"Whoa!" Eliot raised his hands in the _I'm unarmed_ gesture. "Slow down, sword - it's me. Eliot Spencer. Lord of Benwick. Jake's brother?"

 

The sword - Eliot would have to remember to ask what it should be called - paused, quivering in mid-air for a handful of heartbeats before its point dropped toward the floor.

 

Eliot lowered his hands slowly. "Thanks. And thanks again for healing me that time."

 

The sword dipped in acknowledgment, even as Jenkins' voice came from the same doorway where it had entered.

 

"Excalibur!" Jenkins called as he came into the room. "Where are - oh. Mr. Spencer."

 

"Jenkins," Eliot said. Then what the older man said registered and he turned to face the sword. "Wait - you're _Excalibur_?"

 

The sword dipped rapidly once, twice, and Eliot thought it was an approximation of a nod.

 

"Mr. Carsen insists on calling him Cal," Jenkins said. "I don't believe the nickname suits, but Excalibur doesn't seem to mind."

 

"Whatever name you go by," Eliot said, and only a part of his mind considered it strange that he was talking to a flying sword, "it's an honor to meet you officially."

 

"Is that what brings you to the Library?" Jenkins asked. "The chance to be introduced?"

 

"No. I need to use the Back Door."

 

"The Back Door is not for _jaunts_ , Mr. Spencer," Jenkins began sternly. "Certainly not by anyone other than the Librarians."

 

“The only times I’ve ever used that door, Jake needed help," Eliot replied. "Got a problem with that?”

 

"No, of course not," Jenkins said. "But … Mr. Stone needs help?"

 

"I don't know if he does or not," Eliot admitted. "But there's a good chance he might."

 

"He's in Texas." Jenkins crossed to an antique-looking globe and gave it a gentle spin. "What makes you think he needs help there?"

 

"Because I don't like coincidences, and Dad's company being on site at ten separate … unusual events, let's say, in ten years, and the last one just last year is a hell of a coincidence."

 

"Hm. Yes, it is. But what do you think you can do?"

 

"Whatever it takes."

 

Jenkins met his gaze, and for the first time, Eliot saw the warrior Jenkins had been reflected in his eyes. This was Galahad, the purest knight who'd ever lived, and Eliot faced him warrior to warrior, proud to be his descendant.

 

"Then I wish you well, Mr. Spencer." The moment passed, and Jenkins was once again just Jenkins, caretaker of the Annex.

 

Eliot nodded an acknowledgement and stepped from the Annex into Texas.

 

#

 

When he emerged from the mine, Jacob had no more idea why the Clipping Book had gone nuts than he had when he, Quinn, and Cassandra went in. He and the others left their hard hats in one of the company trucks, waved at the security guard on duty, and made their way through the security fence.

 

The mine was clean - no petroglyphs or pictographs, just as the crew had said - and quiet save for the occasional creak of timber or rock shifting. That creak had prompted him to search more quickly than he might have liked, but better a quick search than getting trapped in a cave-in.

 

Still, something was very wrong here - and not just because the Clipping Book said so. Every instinct Jacob owned told him something was _off_ with this mine. He just had to figure out what.

 

"What now?" Quinn asked.

 

Jacob concealed a sigh of resignation. "Now we head to the nearest bar."

 

The nearest bar was both too close and too far away, Jacob decided as he let Quinn step inside first to scope the place out. Manners compelled him to let Cassandra precede him, too, which meant he had no clear view of the interior until Quinn gestured to his right.

 

"Open table over there."

 

"You guys have a seat," Jacob said. "I'll get the first round."

 

Without waiting for an acknowledgment, Jacob turned toward the bar, scanning the list of available beers and whiskies chalked on the wall and threading his way through the crowd on instinct.

 

"One Crown Honey, two Woodford Reserves," he told the bartender. He'd been surprised Quinn shared his taste in bourbon, but it certainly made ordering easier. Cassandra just liked anything honey flavored.

 

"That takes two-fisted drinking to a whole 'nother level."

 

Jacob stiffened at the voice, forced his tone to normal as he looked over his shoulder at the newcomer. "Hey, Pop."

 

"You here with the archaeological society?" Isaac Stone stepped closer to the bar, signaled for another round.

 

"Yeah, actually," Jacob said. It was a good enough cover, and they'd used it at the mine.

 

"That was Oklahoma. This is Texas."

 

"We consult a lot of places." Which was true, as far as it went.

 

"You gonna make trouble for the crew? The job?"

 

"I don't intend to. Thanks," Jacob added to the bartender as the three drinks were placed in front of him. He pulled a bill from his wallet and dropped it on the bar.

 

"Just like you didn't intend to make trouble in Oklahoma?"

 

"The trouble started long before we got there." Jacob pulled the three glasses together, but turned to face his father before he picked them up. "Something going on here makes you think there'll be trouble?"

 

"Local crew don't want to go back in. Said something about Tommyknockers. Damn fool nonsense."

 

Nonsense, maybe - but if it wasn't, was that enough to make the Clipping Book go crazy?

 

"C'mon, Pop," Jacob said. "Join us. Tell us about the job - make our jobs easier."

 

Drinking with his father wouldn't have been his first choice for the evening, but if it might lead to answers, Jacob would buy a dozen rounds.

 

#

 

A few discreet inquiries told Eliot where Stone Family Rigging and Pipeline was working, but still he waited until dusk to visit the work site, shaking his head at the remarkable lack of security measures. He’d known the company had been struggling since Jake left to become a Librarian, but he hadn’t expected to be able to simply open the security fence and walk onto the site unchallenged.

 

He wanted to be grateful for that luck, but old instincts had the hair on his nape rising.

 

_Something’s wrong._

 

He had no idea what that something might be, but that something was wrong Eliot was certain. He circled the site warily, watching for movement in the spaces beneath and between the various pieces of equipment that loomed in the twilight. At the far side of the open space, he saw a figure prone on the ground.

 

Quickly, Eliot crossed to it, bit back a curse when he recognized the security uniform, and knelt to check the man’s pulse. He breathed a silent sigh of relief when it thrummed strong and steady beneath his fingers. Then he moved to check for signs of injury. There were none.

 

"My lord of Benwick.”

 

The voice was light, musical, seductively feminine, and irritatingly familiar. Eliot looked over his shoulder, then relaxed marginally when he recognized the speaker - the representative of the Fey Legions at the Conclave where he’d claimed his heritage.

 

“Lady Sylalandria.” He rose and turned to face her. “This is a surprise.”

 

“A pleasant one, I hope.”

 

“So far. May I ask what brings you here?”

 

“If I may ask what brings you here in turn.”

 

Eliot grinned. “Deal. So?”

 

“These people,” Sylalandria gestured at the security guard, then waved her hand to encompass the entire site, “draw too near the entrance to my realm, and they’ve not removed themselves after warning was given.”

 

“What warning?” Eliot’s grin became a frown almost without his willing it.

 

“The Knackers,” she said, as though that explained everything.

 

It didn’t. “Knackers?”

 

“You might know them as Tommyknockers.”

 

The name sounded familiar, Eliot thought, not just from a book he’d read long ago, and he focused, trying to remember.

 

“Mines,” he said. “They’re spirits in mines.”

 

“They are guardians of the Fey Realm,” Sylalandria said. “They warn humans who encroach on our realm, and they alert us to possible intrusion. Then we take action as appropriate.”

 

They were simple words, but they sent a chill down Eliot’s spine. “What kind of action?”

 

“Usually we simply relocate the entrance. Sometimes, we collapse a mine. I’m here because this could be one of those times.”

 

“What would make it one of those times?” Eliot asked.

 

“Are you trying to get out of our deal?” Sylalandria’s smile was pleasant, but had predatory undertones.

 

Eliot gave her a matching one in return. “Course not. But I have a personal stake in this matter.”

 

“Do you?” Now her expression turned curious.

 

“Yep,” he said. “And I’ll tell you all about it once you answer my last question.”

 

Sylalandria cocked her head, studying him. “Dabra said you’re not to be trifled with. Nor am I.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of trifling with you,” Eliot told her, and meant every word. He hadn’t yet learned how to fight the Fey. “But I prefer straight talk, and figured you do, too.”

 

She appeared to consider that. “It has been a very long time since anyone dared speak plainly, but yes, I do appreciate it. Very well. We may have to collapse this mine because it has been anchored to the entrance to our realm.”

 

“Anchored? How?”

 

“I answered your questions. Now it is your turn to answer mine. Why are you here?”

 

“It’s my Dad’s company. The one that broke through into the mine.”

 

Sylalandria’s eyes widened and her mouth actually fell open. “Oh. Oh, that explains much.”

 

“What does it explain?”

 

“How the break happened, why the entrance is anchored. It does not explain why your father failed to leave once he heard the Knackers’ warning.”

 

“He didn’t know what it meant,” Eliot replied immediately, certain he was right though he hadn’t seen his father in two decades.

 

“How could he not know what it meant?” Sylalandria demanded, anger coloring her features.

 

“Like most people, he believes the knocking sound comes from creaking timbers and rock in the mine itself. Some of it is natural settling, some of it is dangerous. None of it is the kind of warning you describe.”

 

His explanation didn’t seem to soothe her. “He insults us with his ignorance.”

 

“Ignorance can be fixed,” Eliot said.

 

“Are you saying you’ll fix his ignorance?”

 

Eliot couldn’t stop the bitter sound that escaped his lips - it might have been a laugh. “Don’t think anyone can do that. He’s stubborn.”

 

“A family trait, perhaps?” Sylalandria’s expression was sharp.

 

“Probably.” Eliot kept his tone even.

 

“Regardless, he must leave this place, so we can remain undisturbed. You may persuade him, or we will. It matters not.”

 

“Is that an ultimatum?”

 

“It is a statement of what must be,” Sylalandria said. “How it comes to be is … flexible. For now.”

 

And then she was gone. Just … gone.

 

Eliot surveyed the work site, just to confirm his perceptions, but Sylalandria had vanished as silently as she’d arrived.

 

“Magic,” he swore, and that really did seem to say it all.

 

#

 

Two hours later, Jacob waved goodbye as the taxi that would take his father back to his hotel pulled away from the curb.

 

"That was a waste," he said and turned toward the door that would take them back to the Annex.

 

Quinn fell into step with him. "You knew it was a long shot going in."

 

"And the crew did mention Tommyknockers." Cassandra sounded slightly out of breath as she hurried to catch up. "So at least we have a place to start."

 

"Not much of one," Jacob muttered more to himself than the others and turned down the alley where they'd arrived.

 

A moment later, he stepped into the Annex. "Tommyknockers, Jenkins. How do we -"

 

Jacob stopped short, staring at the man standing by the round table. "Eliot?"

 

"Jake." His twin nodded to Cassandra. "Cassandra." Then he frowned. "Quinn?"

 

"I work for the Library now," Quinn answered the unspoken question. "Under Colonel Baird."

 

"Huh." Eliot considered that for a moment. "Welcome to the family, then."

 

"What are you doing here?" Jacob asked, unable to contain his curiosity anymore.

 

"I don't like coincidences," Eliot replied, which made no sense at all.

 

"Just because Dad's been involved in two -"

 

Eliot shook his head. "Ten."

 

Jacob stared at him. "What?"

 

"Ten incidents in ten years." Eliot turned to Cassandra. "You're the mathematician. You tell me the odds of the same person, not a Librarian, being involved in ten magical incidents in ten years."

 

"Five -" Cassandra began, but Jacob cut her off.

 

"Stop, okay?" He kept his tone gentle despite the command in it. Then he looked at Eliot. "You're sure?"

 

"Tea is ready, Mr. Spencer." The voice belonged to Jenkins, and he surveyed Jacob and the others even as he set the tray he carried onto the table. "Ah, you're back. I assume the problem is taken care of?"

 

"Not yet," Quinn replied.

 

"How do you stop Tommyknockers?" Cassandra asked.

 

"With great difficulty," Jenkins answered, as he poured a cup of tea and offered it to Eliot. "They are spirits of the Earth, after all."

 

"We stop them by convincing Dad to go somewhere else," Eliot said. He took the cup. "Thanks, Jenkins."

 

Jacob frowned. "Why would Pop moving on stop them?"

 

"Because his presence is what drew them. That lost mine is actually an entrance to the Fey Realm."

 

"An entrance?" Cassandra's face lit with excitement. "Can we go see it?"

 

"Things rarely work out well for mortals who dare to visit the Fey Realm." Jenkins poured a second cup, offered it first to Cassandra, who shook her head. Quinn took it without comment.

 

"They usually just move the entrances," Eliot continued, "but this one's locked in place, and they think it's Dad's presence that did it."

 

"Pardon me, Mr. Spencer," Jenkins said, "but how, exactly, do you know this?"

 

"Lady Sylalandria told me when I saw her at the work site."

 

"The work site?" Jacob repeated. "You were there? When?"

 

Jenkins held up a hand, and Jacob fell silent. "Perhaps you should tell us everything she said and did."

 

#

 

It didn't take Eliot long to recite the particulars of his meeting with Lady Sylalandria. As he spoke, Jenkins' expression grew more and more grave until by the end he was frowning fully.

 

"I should've thought of it myself," Jenkins said. "The bloodline, of course."

 

It was Quinn's turn to frown, though his looked puzzled. "Bloodline?"

 

"Ours," Jake said, and Eliot could only nod.

 

"The affinity for magic that runs in your family," Jenkins gestured first at Eliot, then at Jake, with his cup. "Of course Isaac Stone would be prone to such things, just as you two are."

 

"Prone?" Jake repeated. "I wouldn't say we're prone to such things."

 

"You're a Librarian," Cassandra pointed out, saving Eliot the trouble.

 

"Eliot's not," Quinn said.

 

"No," Jenkins agreed, and met Eliot's gaze over the rim of his teacup. "But you have interacted with the supernatural before you learned of the Library."

 

"I have?" Eliot didn't even try to keep the confusion from his tone.

 

Jenkins nodded. "Dabra."

 

"I didn't know," Eliot said. "He hired me."

 

"Precisely." Jenkins took a sip of his tea.

 

"So what do we do?" Jake asked.

 

Jenkins set his cup and saucer down carefully. "There's a reason people have feared the Fey. I wouldn't wish their wrath on anyone."

 

"I asked for the chance to fix this," Eliot told Jake, waited for the acknowledgment in his twin's eyes. "Maybe we can make a deal."

 

"Even if we can," Jake said, "what about the next time? Will she - they - be as forgiving the next time Pop's bloodline brings him too close for comfort?"

 

"Almost certainly not," Jenkins declared. "Which means we must stop your father from digging anymore."

 

Cassandra was the only one who didn't seem awkward in the wake of that statement, Eliot thought. Certainly Quinn and Jake looked uneasy, and he knew he was.

 

Quinn looked between Eliot and Jake before he broke the silence. "Did he mean that the way I took it?"

 

"I hope not," Eliot replied, "for his sake."

 

 _Mine, too,_ Eliot added silently. He didn't want to have to fight Sir Galahad, especially not when that knight was a distant ancestor he'd come to respect.

 

Jenkins looked at him, surprise limning his features for a moment. Then comprehension dawned.

 

"No!" Jenkins said. "I wouldn't suggest _that_ without great cause. This is an inconvenience, nothing more."

 

"Suggest _what_?" Cassandra asked Quinn, probably more loudly than she'd intended. Or maybe it was just that the silence was still deep enough that any words echoed.

 

"Killing him," Quinn answered in a matter-of-fact tone.

 

Cassandra could only stare, wide-eyed. "Oh."

 

"I don't know what else would work." Jake turned somber eyes to Eliot. "He's practically broke - the company's all he has. We can't just … _take it_ from him."

 

"Not even to save his life?" Quinn asked.

 

"Jake's right," Eliot said. "We can't just take the company from him. But we can buy it from him."

 

"I know the company's struggling," Jake said, "but the equipment alone - well, it's a lot of money. A _lot_. Millions."

 

"Let me worry about the money," Eliot told him. "You worry about how to convince him to sell the company to us."

 

#

 

Jacob gripped the file folder tighter in his sweaty fingers. In it were documents that would transfer ownership of Stone Family Rigging & Pipeline from his father to him, as well as information for wire transferring a very large sum of money into his father's personal account.

 

He forced himself not to wonder where Eliot had gotten that much money, let alone how Eliot had known what documents were needed for the transfer and how he'd gotten them prepared so quickly.

 

The large sum of money wasn't what made his fingers sweat, though. The thought of confronting his father took care of that little detail, and Jacob took a breath to steady himself before opening the door to Lil's Place, the diner that his father had chosen for lunch today.

 

The diner was glass-fronted, so Jacob's eyes needed less than a second to adjust to being inside rather than outside. He paused at the _Please wait to be seated_ sign, scanning the diner. There, in the back, Quinn and Cassandra sat together at a table - Quinn ready to provide Guardian-level backup if needed, and Cassandra there to provide a reason to linger in the diner long after their meal was finished.

 

Jacob's glance didn't linger on them, instead moving to the rest of the diner. There, close to the door to the kitchen, sat his father. Jacob admitted some surprise that the other man had a soda in front of him, rather than alcohol, and then remembered that a Coke could hide a lot of rum. That hadn't been his father's drink of choice, but God only knew what had changed since they'd encountered that shapeshifter in Wagner.

 

Jacob crossed to the table where his father sat. "Hey, Pop."

 

 


End file.
